


Enough Thunder

by slodwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slodwick/pseuds/slodwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written prior to the series 2 finale. No spoilers, apart from the fear in my woeful little heart.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Enough Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> Written prior to the series 2 finale. No spoilers, apart from the fear in my woeful little heart.

Sunlight was just beginning to spill over the rooftops when John emerged from a taxi onto a sleepy, peaceful Baker Street. Everything looked the way it had the day of the trial. It was unnerving that things could change so dramatically in his own life, and the rest of the world was allowed to continue on living as usual.

He shifted his weight awkwardly to shut the taxi door, the cane in his hand necessary now in a way it hadn’t been before, and then limped across the pavement to the front door. The windows of the sandwich shop were dark, reflecting a young couple as they passed him. John paused and his gaze briefly met the woman’s in the reflection; he thought saw pity in her expression. He turned the key and closed the door behind him roughly.

Outside, it seemed the world had gone on without him, but inside, the changes were rampant. The shabby umbrella stand that had been there for years had been replaced, it seemed, and everywhere he looked, wood trim gleamed. There were fresh flowers on the hall table. Their scent overpowered the space, claustrophobic and over-sweet, reminding him suddenly of the hospital.

At the top of the stairs, the flat held more evidence of Mrs. Hudson’s inability to sit still. Where there had been piles of papers strewn across the desk, or dirty dishes stacked in the kitchen sink for later, items were now tidied into neat piles, or washed up and put away. He didn’t need to look in the fridge to know that it was likely scrubbed clean, with weeks of scientific research gone into the bin.

Seeing his army blanket folded neatly on the edge of the sofa fueled an irrational anger inside him. He tugged at the corner until it fell, crumpling in a satisfactory pile on the floor. He set about the room then, fanning stacks of mail and old newspapers into disorder and upsetting stacks of book. A few fell to the floor, and he left them there. He even smiled when he spied a coffee mug under his chair, and left that as well.

He was still admiring his efforts when the voice spoke behind him.

“I believe I also left a plate beneath my bed.”

John was startled, but he didn’t jump. Instead, he grabbed the first newspaper within reach and sat down before glancing up at Sherlock. “She’s not our housekeeper, you know.”

“Yes, well, I do like to test Mrs. Hudson’s limits.”

Sherlock stood still for a moment, and John could feel his gaze. Despite the old joke, the anger that had dimmed inside John now roared up again. He had a vague memory—if one could call anything gained in the rolling haze of pain and morphine a memory—of Sherlock visiting the hospital only once. He’d come to with Sherlock standing at the end of his bed. There had been no windows in his room, but it was dark, so it had probably been late. Something as trifling as designated visiting hours would make no difference to the world’s only consulting detective. Sherlock had looked at him so intently, as though he wanted to speak, but in the end, he said nothing. John waited and eventually faded out, and when he woke again, the room had been empty. He couldn’t even know if it was real.

After that, when his mind had cleared and he was healing, he could remember seeing Harry and Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly; even Sarah had been to visit, her careful doctor’s training the only thing that kept her from weeping when she saw his leg. They'd all been so careful, speaking to him in hushed, cheerful tones. He'd nearly got sick of seeing them, to be honest. But he never saw Sherlock again.

Now here they were again, same old jokes, same old Baker Street. And the same old Sherlock, ready to talk now that things were passed the apology stage, hoping he could skip right to forgiveness, as usual.

Sherlock had crossed into the kitchen and was rattling around in the cupboards behind him. “I’ve got a meeting with a client in Greenwich in an hour, and I could use your help,” he called out. “If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

He could let it go, John thought. He could give Sherlock a pass, act as though the explosion and the last painful months of his life had never occurred, and their friendship might roll on forever without any change, apart from John’s renewed limp. He knew that was what Sherlock wanted, but he couldn’t do it.

John rose, wincing, and walked into the kitchen. An abandoned cup of tea sat steaming on the table, but the room was otherwise empty. He was just in time to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s shadow moving down the hall. The sun was shining fully now and the wall leading to his room was bathed in light.

“Sherlock, we have to talk about this,” he said, following.

“The case?” Sherlock’s disembodied voice sounded distant, distracted. Jackets and trousers began to fly across the room, landing in a heap in front of the door. Black, blue, black, black. "Oh, it’s fascinating. I made sure of that. Couldn’t let a boring case ruin your homecoming.”

“No, not the case,” John said with a sigh. And just like that, his anger was gone. It rushed from him like pulling the stopper in a sink; he felt drained and exhausted. He stopped in the hall outside Sherlock’s room, leaning on the wall and feeling the heat of all that golden light. When he spoke, his voice was weary. “Not the case. Me. What happened at the trial. You, avoiding the hospital. All of it.”

The movement in Sherlock’s room ceased, followed by what John assumed was Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, but there was no answer. The silence went on so long, John started to believe he wouldn’t get one. It was getting too warm standing in the sunshine, anyway, and his leg was beginning to ache; he found himself thinking fondly of the sofa and the blanket on the floor. Just as he turned to walk away, though, Sherlock finally spoke.

“I thought you were dead.” His voice was impossible to read. “I thought he had finally succeeded in killing you.”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Me, too, at first.”

“I was already gone when they found you. I.. I didn’t know for days.”

“Did you find him?” It was not exactly the question that John meant to ask, the one that had been on his mind for weeks, but it was close enough. He didn’t open his eyes.

“No one ever will,” was all Sherlock said.

The ache in John’s leg was maddening now, but he couldn’t seem to move. He was pinned to the wall by the reddish glow behind his eyelids and the finality in Sherlock’s voice. There was more to say, besides.

“Did you really come to the hospital?” he asked, his voice cracking so slightly that anyone else would have missed it. There was no answer, but John didn't wait. “Because I think I saw you, but just the once. Why didn’t you come back?”

There was still no answer. John felt a tightness in his chest, a pressure that he wouldn’t name. He searched instead for the anger he'd felt before.

“Why, Sherlock? Why weren’t you there? I need to know.” He was shouting, he knew, but didn't care, thoughtless to everything but that one persistent question. “Damn it, tell me _why_!”

John didn’t hear the knock at the door or the footsteps on the stairs; he didn’t hear his name or even notice anyone else was there until he felt a solid grip on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and realized he was on the floor. He was leaning against the bare wall in what had been Sherlock’s room. The room was dark, the meager light from streetlamps outside barely enough to see by. Lestrade leaned over him, his face worried.

“Greg?” John asked, shifting his cane to stand up. “What—what are you doing here?”

“Harry worried when she couldn’t find you and she called me. Figured I’d find you here.” Greg hooked an arm under John’s and helped him up. “Let’s get you home, eh?”

John laughed without any humor and pulled his arm away from Lestrade, his face burning. He got his cane under him at last and walked out of the empty room, down the hall into the empty kitchen. He used the side door rather than face the painfully empty sitting room. Lestrade followed him without saying another word. They descended the staircase, and walked out on the street. Mrs. Hudson waited on the pavement outside, and while she wasn’t crying at that moment, it clearly hadn’t been long. Her eyes were red and puffy, her mouth pursed tight, but she, too, let John pass in silence. She gave Lestrade a small nod, then quietly slipped in and closed the door.

Lestrade’s car was parked at the curb, and John lowered himself into the passenger seat without much difficulty. He leaned his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes again. He didn’t look back at the closed door or the dark windows as they drove away. He didn’t ask any more questions.


End file.
